The Two Promises
Hernan Casciari's story about a man tortured by his devotion to two places and soccer teams—an experience I may share in a week's time.
Yesterday morning I realized something terrible—so terrible that it moved me to break my silence during the most important event in the world.
If the United States beat the Netherlands on Saturday morning at 10 a.m., and Argentina follow four hours later by overcoming Australia, the two nations will meet in the World Cup quarterfinals in Qatar.
This has happened before: the nation of my birth, and the nation of my forefathers meeting on the soccer field. In the early years, it never bothered me. I can’t remember noticing, my eyes were so fixed on Argentina and Batistuta. None of the soccer voices in my life were American. Even on my club teams, my coaches, whether Richie Kaminski or Dom Zero or Ali Bushrui, were drowned out by the voice of my grandfather who paced up and down the opposite sideline shouting his own usually contradictory directions in Rioplatense Spanish.
Even if their families had arrived two or three generations earlier than mine did, the people I grew up with in Bayonne cheered more loudly after Italy’s victory in the 2006 final against France than they did for any goal scored by Eric Wynalda or Freddy Adu or Clint Dempsey in a Gold Cup. Those of us who really, deeply loved the game played it on crummy grass fields with immigrants from Poland, Egypt, El Salvador, and throughout South America. We watched in Mexican restaurants, not American pubs. Only in 2009 when I made the conscious decision to support the U.S., realizing that the Stars and Stripes needed my unhinged fandom more than Argentina did at that moment, did I start to concern myself with matters of the national team.1
The U.S. and Argentina met in a friendly at Meadowlands Arena in 2011. I went with my friends and wore some absurd mix of each nation’s flags, jerseys, and bandanas. The game ended 1-1 with a first-half goal by “Cuchu” Cambiasso canceled out by Juan Agudelo. Five years later, friends and I gathered at Schulz Brau to watch the teams again face off in the Copa America; this time Argentina were the victors, 4-0.
My only consolation when the U.S. failed to qualify for Russia in 2018 was knowing that there was absolutely zero risk that what may happen in a few days would come to pass: my two nations could not meet in the World Cup. Now there’s the very real possibility they may. And yet I will cheer as hard for the Baby Eagles to beat the Dutch as I will for Messi’s Argentina to overwhelm the Aussies, knowing that what comes next will be torturous.2
Realizing this possibility made me think back to a story by Hernan Casciari called Las Dos Promesas (“The Two Promises”) about an old man from his neighborhood. So I decided to translate it for you.
In my neighborhood, there was a very old and grumpy man; he was an Italian, a fanatic of Boca Juniors to his core. His name was Américo Bertotti, and he was one of the many Italian men who had left their homeland for Argentina at the start of World War II.
A thousand times he’d told us the story of his life in the old country because (like many immigrants) good wine made him nostalgic and bad wine made him mutter the same stories over and over. He told us about his mother, who he never saw again; how she put him on a boat and told him, “Don’t abandon your Milanese roots, Américo, and you’ll never want for anything in your life .” He was 14 years old when he crossed the Atlantic with those words etched on his soul. And he never forgot them.
Two months later, when he touched ground in Buenos Aires, the year was 1943 and the first thing that caught him by surprise was the silence. It was an overwhelming silence that stretched over that enormous city. For the first time in years, he didn’t hear the sounds of German bombs or women screaming, not even the hideous rumbling of his empty belly.
The young Américo arrived from Milan alone, in a daze, and with his hair down to his shoulders. That’s when he came face to face with the first great hurdle of his new life: to work, he was told, he needed to get his hair cut. To get a haircut he needed money in his pockets. And, as the sun set on his first day in a new land, he realized, to have money in his pockets he needed to work. It was a vicious circle of obstacles.
Américo discovered that Argentina was a land of short-haired men; European hairstyles hadn’t yet arrived in the New World. The poor Europeans spotted each other in the street, with their shoddy footwear and long, greasy hair. Many faced the same challenge as the young Américo. But they had heard a rumor: there was a barber in La Boca who would cut the hair of any immigrant for free—under one condition. But no one knew what that condition was. So Américo went to find out for himself.
The barber, a big, broad-shouldered creole, welcomed him with a smile and told him he’d shave his head for free if he promised, from that very afternoon, that he’d unconditionally support a soccer club named Boca Juniors until the end of his life. The young Américo, surprised by such a good bargain, didn’t hesitate. He swore that he’d always support Boca; he swore it in the way that only a young, starving boy could: from his heart and forever.
That afternoon Américo left the barbershop without a hair on his head and with blue and yellow in his heart. Years passed. Américo married a good woman, had kids, and he’s lived in my neighborhood, two houses over from mine, ever since.
Américo prospered. And he lived always with one eye forward and another in the past, convinced that his good fortune in life had to do with the two promises he had never broken: to his mother to never disavow his Milanese origin, and to the barber to be a Boca fanatic for the rest of his life.
Don Américo could have never imagined that in his old age he’d be met with the cruel coincidence that would take place at exactly 7:45 a.m. on December 14, 2003.
For the rest of us, who were in that bar that morning watching the television, it was just a soccer game between Boca Juniors and AC Milan, who played in the Intercontinental Cup in Japan. A very important game—the best team from South America versus the best from Europe—but in the end just a way to pass the time. But for Don Américo it was something else. To this poor old man that was not a game; it was torture. Cheer for whichever side he wished, he’d break one of his two promises.
The December heat was already unbearable despite the early morning kickoff. And Don Américo sat with his elbows leaning on the bartop and his head in his hands. He wept before the TV signal reached Tokyo. Because he still hadn’t decided which place to turn his back on: the one where he’d been born, or the one that had adopted him.
When the game kicked off, he sat in tears. We watched him more than we did the ball. His anguish fascinated us—because it’s always more entertaining to watch one man suffer than 22 sweat on a soccer field.
The first goal was scored by Milan. Don Américo rose to his feet and shouted, ¡Vamos Caraco, forza Milano merda puta! Then he sat down, mucus covering his face from the tears. Six minutes later, Boca equalized. Don Américo rose again, shouting, ¡Vamos Caraco, aguante boquita merda puta! Then he collapsed on the bartop weeping bitterly.
The game ended 1-1; as if destiny had determined to extend his suffering for as long as he could bear it. Through extra time, the game remained goalless. Then it was penalties. Don Américo didn’t murmur a word as the teams lined up to take their kicks. He walked from one end of the bar to the other sipping slowly and nervously from his glass of wine. Not a single one of us wanted to disrupt his silence.
He screamed triumphantly for every penalty converted and missed; he celebrated each goal for Boca and each from Milan, cheering for and against his two hearts until the last spot kick—which gave the victory to the team of the barber, the creole who cut the hair of a dirty Italian kid with no papers sixty years earlier in a country that was still prosperous.
Don Américo stopped celebrating. And he ceased crying. Frozen, he stood there in silence, observing everyone in the bar. We acted as if we didn’t notice him, tried to pay attention to anything else.
The eyes of Don Américo were glassy and dry. He looked at the television set in the corner, then at us. He looked back and forth, again and again. Incredulous. As if he were watching his own funeral.
Fin.
Read my other Casciari translations:
The moment, an awakening of sorts, came during the 2009 Confederations Cup. The U.S. men upset Spain and were leading Brazil 2-0 in the final before Brazil scored three-second half goals to take the title. After that loss, I left Mickey’s house and went home to write an essay that I later published on Bleacher Report about why it was time for Americans to back the national team. It was my first piece of published writing and arguably set me on the road I’m on today.
I’ll only take one stand here: it’s hard, as I’ve written before, to imagine life with split identities unless you’ve lived it. To live, as Casciari says, with your heart and mind in two places. To be named Brian by an Argentinian family that wants so badly to assimilate yet eats asados on Sundays, drinks mate every afternoon, and doesn’t learn English despite 40 years in this country. And to be called foreign by people who notice those things your family does and that you don’t look like a guy named Ricky Johnson whose ancestors just happened to immigrate from England 200 years earlier. I love the U.S. men’s national team. I adore the U.S. women’s national team. And the first jersey I owned was sky blue and white.
Awesome, as usual!
Cabezon, ojala ambos equipos lleguen a lo mas alto... Ojala no se crucen... Ojala los milagros ocurran.